


The writer's room

by CaffeinaShips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, alcohol mention, character death (chuck), references to self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeinaShips/pseuds/CaffeinaShips
Summary: Chuck Shurley dies shortly after being made human. We glimpse his afterlife.
Relationships: None
Comments: 13
Kudos: 10
Collections: SPNColdestHits





	The writer's room

Two days later Chuck was hit by a car. Chuck had just enough experience being human to really loathe it. When that ugly minivan crushed his frail stupid body he had smelled bad, and he had to pee. The bladder was a mistake, he realized now. Humanity in general was a mistake, but he had known that for a while. So many stupid complicated systems, so many tiny breakable parts. He’d just had to show off by creating all of those complex interconnected systems in their stupid bodies. He should have stuck with making jellyfish the dominant species like he’s considered before deciding to go all in on the random nature of humans. What an idiot he’d been.

He gave humans free will because he had thought it would be easier to create a good story. He had reasoned that he could create the broad strokes of the plot and the humans could fill in the details themselves with the randomness of their choices. He knew where he wanted the story to begin, and how he wanted it to end, but he hated trying to decide what everyone should eat, what they should wear, what couch they should buy. He figured giving the humans free will would allow him to outsource the details while he focused on the plot.

And what had these little assholes used the gift of free will for? They freed his sister, ruined his angels, destroyed his narrative, and stolen his power. They left him helpless, powerless, and temporary. They left him hungry, disoriented, homeless, tired, and uncomfortable. 

And now he was dead. Unceremoniously crushed to death while trying to cross the street to use the public restroom in a starbucks. Free will for everyone and they use it to create starbuck. He never could have imagined a lavender latte, but the humans did it. And it is so gross. He should have given free will to the jellyfish. 

Upon his death Chuck had found himself in a little room, comfortably appointed. A little desk sat in one corner with a typewriter on it, a bottle of whiskey beside it, and a glass. A worn rolling chair sat in front of the desk. There was a leather armchair against the opposite wall. The desk had a drawer full of infinite paper. Notably absent was a door or window. Four square walls blocked Chuck in. There were also no distractions. There was no tv or radio, no books, no trinkets or games. 

It looked to Chuck like a writer’s paradise. Finally free again from the need to eat or pee or sleep, separated from the distractions that keep a writer from concentrating on their inspiration, Chuck had the ability to hone his creations. Chuck’s magic of creation had been wasted for too long on the mistake of humanity. It was time to finally put some quality words to paper and build a space that deserved Chuck’s genius. 

Chuck sat in the rolling chair and pulled up to the typewriter. There was a crisp sheet of white paper already threaded into place. The rolling chair was a little bit lumpy and the lumbar hit him in just slightly the wrong place. And of course it squeaked. It felt perfectly like the well used desk chair of a real writer. The logical place to start seemed like an autobiography. Something to get his creative energies flowing. The keys clacked in a satisfying way as he began a description of becoming aware of his own existence. The space bar was slightly prone to sticking, like an authentic key on an authentically well used typewriter.

Chuck tried to capture the grandeur of the realization of his own being. The first few paragraphs flowed easily, and he soon filled the empty page with the beginnings of his origin story. He zipped the paper out of the printer and settled back into his chair with a gentle squeak to review his work so far. 

“Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!).”

What the fuck was this? Where were his masterfully crafted words? Where were his brilliant sentences? He skimmed the rest of the page and found much of the same bizarre nonsense. He crumpled the page and threw it over his shoulder toward the armchair. 

Chuck pulled another piece of paper out of the drawer, with a little effort as the drawer stuck and dragged a little on its track. He loaded it in place and decided to try a new approach. He made himself a list of all the animals that would have made better main characters than humans, starting with the jellyfish. He filled the page with animal types, watching carefully as the words typed out to ensure they were the words he chose. 

When he hit the bottom of the paper he stared with satisfaction at the page for a moment before pulling it from the typewriter. Before he set the completed page on the desk next to him he glanced again at the first few animals. He read

“On the night of the concert I put on my black lace-up boots with high heels. Underneath them were ripped red fishnets. Then I put on a black leather minidress with all this corset stuff on the back and front. I put on matching fishnet on my arms. I straightened my hair and made it look all spiky. I felt a little depressed then, so I slit one of my wrists. I read a depressing book while I waited for it to stop bleeding and I listened to some GC. I painted my nails black and put on TONS of black eyeliner. Then I put on some black lipstick. I didn’t put on foundation because I was pale anyway. I drank some human blood so I was ready to go to the concert.”

His words! Ruined! With this… garbage?? He crumpled the paper and threw it behind him. Maybe a drink would clear his mind. The whiskey looked expensive and aged, though he didn’t recognize the label, and smelled delicious. He poured two fingers worth into the heavy crystal glass next to the bottle and threw the whole thing back.

Nothing happened. Nothing touched his lips or tongue. He picked up the bottle and watched the liquid pour out. It evaporated into nothingness a millimeter from the desk. He poured the whiskey into the glass, watched it overflow down the side of the glass, and evaporate just before the desk again. He set the bottle down and it was exactly as full as before he first poured it.

Chuck got out of the rolly chair with a loud squeak and brushed his two rejected drafts off of the arm chair and collapsed into it. The leather was soft and worn. It sagged in a satisfying way. It also had one jagged spring that pushed up at an odd angle and dug very slightly into his butt. It was only very barely uncomfortable. He shifted around the chair for a minute surveying the desk. There wasn’t much to be done except try again. He returned to the desk and wrote a paragraph about different types of beer, pulled the paper out and examined it.

“I went outside. Draco was waiting there in front of his flying car. He was wearing a Simple Plan t-shirt (they would play at the show too), baggy black skater pants, black nail polish and a little eyeliner (AN: A lot fo kewl boiz wer it ok!).

“Hi Draco!” I said in a depressed voice.

“Hi Ebony.” he said back. We walked into his flying black Mercedes-Benz (the license plate said 666) and flew to the place with the concert. On the way we listened excitedly to Good Charlotte and Marilyn Manson. We both smoked cigarettes and drugs. When we got there, we both hopped out of the car. We went to the mosh pit at the front of the stage and jumped up and down as we listened to Good Charlotte.”

Fanfiction! It was fucking fanfiction! His glorious creations were being overwritten by some trashy fanfic! The fucking travesty! His perfectly crafted, literally Godly words replaced with this horrible knock-off! He crumpled it up and threw in next to the other two balls of paper on the floor. 

Angrily Chuck slammed another piece of paper into the printer. He began an open letter to the entity running this place. He laid out every detail of failing, complained about every poke from the chair and grind from the desk drawer, getting more annoyed at each tiny stick of the space key. He filled the page, pulled it out without looking at it, slammed it on the desk, loaded a new piece of paper and kept writing. He filled several pages of complaint, ranging from the temperature being slightly too warm, to the general garbage of fanfiction. The pile of papers grew to a dozen before he cautiously pulled the top page off of the pile and read the first paragraph.

““Abra Kedavra!” he yelled at Snape and Loopin pointing his womb. I took my gun and shot Snape and Loopin a gazillion times and they both started screaming and the camera broke. Suddenly, Dumblydore ran in. “Ebony, it has been revealed that someone has - NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he shouted looking at Snape and Loopin and then he waved his wand and suddenly…”

Fuck! Chuck crumbled up each page and threw them on the floor with the others. He poured himself another drink before he remembered and threw that over his shoulder too, where it promptly evaporated. He thought about swapping back to the armchair but remembered about the spring. 

Fuck. This was Hell alright. His Hell. And what could he do? Write another letter?

Chuck took another paper and threaded it into the typewriter and typed the simple question

“Why?”

He pulled out the paper and read the words there

““Fuck off.” I told him. “You know I fucking hate the color pink anyway, and I don’t like fucked up preps like you.” I snapped. Hargrid had been mean to me before for being gottik.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm not sure the story Chuck intended to write was going to be any better than My Immortal.


End file.
